


Shoot the Messenger

by FourCatProductions



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: A sprinkling of plot, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barbed Penis, Breathplay, Clothed Sex, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fight Sex, Headcanons Regarding Khajiit Physiology, Kinktober 2020, Knotting, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Unsafe Sex, as a treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26887816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions
Summary: A Guild enforcer's past makes a reappearance, and Vex picks the wrong pocket.
Relationships: Vex (Elder Scrolls)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45
Collections: 5E201, Kinktober 2020





	Shoot the Messenger

**Author's Note:**

> Boy, you ever just look at the tags on something and think "godspeed, you horny bastard"? Proud to say I am now the author of one of those fics. Merry Kinktober, and a huge thank you to @raunchyandpaunchy for beta-reading this and encouraging me to make it everyone else's problem.

Unlike most of her guildmates, Vex doesn’t accept jobs from Mercer’s side of things. There’s no shame in it—everyone has to make a living somehow, and the split had been so long ago that the greenest recruits don’t even know who Gallus was—but she has her principles. She’d sworn him off the second he fell into Maven Black-Briar’s purse, and has no intention of going back on the oath. No, Vex has had more than enough of Mercer Frey, thank you. More than enough for several lifetimes.

Nightingale’s, she has no such compunctions about.

It’s Fredas, loud, bass thumping some candy-coated beat as the lights shimmer neon over the dance floor. Go-go dancers writhe in cages over the bar and beside the balconies, accepting the tips stuffed into their g-strings by eager hands. Loud and sweaty and desperate, which makes it the perfect place to lighten a few pockets without being noticed. She does four or five alone from the front door to the bar, where she orders herself two fingers of top-shelf whiskey—the one brand she can find that’s made _without_ Black-Briar honey—and sips it slow, savoring the burn. Bar’s busy, jostling, bodies bumping into her as patrons elbow their way to the front of the queue for drinks. One especially massive elbow jostles her, spilling the dregs of her whiskey onto the bar. Vex’s hand drifts to the knife at her belt as she glances up. Khajiit, she thinks, but not one of the furstocks she’s used to seeing—this one is tall enough that her head barely reaches his bicep, leather jacket bulging at the seams where it strains against his shoulders. Fur glints steel-grey beneath the lights, striped with jagged black. She waits until he orders, then swipes his wallet from his jacket and melts back into the crowd. He owes her another drink.

As fertile a hunting ground as it is, Nightingale’s also has a tendency to make Vex claustrophobic. Ironic, considering how much time she spends in dark, cramped spaces or staking out potential marks in her car, but the relief that washes over her when she lets herself out the side door is palpable. When it swings shut, the lights stop flashing, the bass muffled into almost nothing. She leans against the wall for a moment, eyes closed, breathing in cool night air. The prickly, overheated feeling fades, and she slides her hand into her jacket pocket, toying with one of the necklaces she’d lifted. The one she’d nicked off that Imperial woman had looked nice: proper gold, real emerald. If she can find a buyer, there’s her rent for the month paid, and plenty left over for fun.

Heat and music billow into the alley, and her eyes snap open on instinct. Drunk couple looking for a private place to fuck, maybe, or someone looking for a place to be sick—but that hope dies instantly, alarm springing up in its place as the Khajiit from the bar steps outside. She’s backing away before she realizes it, hands loose and ready by her sides, and he looks at her with something that might be amusement, enormous head tilting forward. He’s no longer wearing his jacket, his plain black shirt stretched tight over his broad chest and his sharp-creased trousers clinging to muscled thighs, and she knows then that she’d miscalculated.

_Fuck._

“This one thinks you have something that belongs to him,” he says.

“Don’t think so.” She keeps her voice even, expression neutral with a hint of confusion, heart pounding. Even if he knows, she’s not copping to it so easily. “Since I have no idea who you are or what you’re talking about.”

“Come now, _bishu dariit,_ ” he says softly, and the lamplight catches his eyes, silvery-blue tinged gold—familiar, but not. “What is the point of lying? Khajiit can smell it on you.”

_Fuck!_

Vex snarls and goes for her knife, but he’s big, bigger than she’d realized, and fast; he knocks it out of her grip with his free hand, sending it skittering down the alley. She’s lifted up like she weighs nothing and slammed against the wall, pinned by the fist bunched in her collar. The blow rattles the breath from her lungs. Now they’re eye-level, her legs dangling uselessly in mid-air, and when she tries to kick him his hand tightens, drawing the collar of her jacket around her neck and _twisting_ until her breath starts to grow shallow and she coughs, stilling. His grip loosens. Those strange, flat eyes rake over her, and he flicks one of the buckles that hang from the front of her jacket, claws glistening in the dingy orange light. They’re long and black, like they’ve been carved from ebony, and the tips curve like razors. The metal chimes when he taps it.

“You must be with the Guild this one has heard so much about.”

“Brilliant deduction,” Vex wheezes. “You want a reward?” The jacket still encircles the base of her throat, making it difficult to speak, and a dull pressure grows in her chest. She can’t get any purchase, and beneath the striped gray fur, his forearm is corded with muscle like steel cables. Left to dangle at his mercy, a spark of panic flickers. She smothers it at once. The second she lets it in, he’ll smell it on her. _Distract. Obfuscate._ If she could just reach the knife in her boot…

Those wicked claws move from jacket to bare skin, and she shudders as one traces a delicate line up the side of her neck, then strokes her cheek, the tip a hairsbreadth from her eye. He really only needs one hand to hold her up, she realizes, with a rush of something like adrenaline. The grip loosens a touch more, and when the claw strokes her cheek again, the resulting shudder isn’t entirely from revulsion. _Focus, idiot!_

“A reward,” he says, thoughtful. “Yes. A reward sounds very good indeed.”

“Oh, I’ll reward you.” She digs her nails into his wrist, aiming for skin beneath the thinner fur on the underside. If he feels it, he gives no indication. “Put me down and I’ll give you _exactly_ what you deserve.”

His fangs flash. “Tempting.”

Vex isn’t used to being manhandled. She’s spent a long time teaching bold men, in and out of the Guild, that invading her personal space is an endeavor that can only end in regret; even Vald, her most recent ex-lover, had barely been permitted to touch her outside the few times they’d fucked. But most men she meets aren’t damn near eight feet tall and built like a Dwemer centurion, and she yelps as she’s tossed unceremoniously over his shoulder, one big hand pinning her wrists behind her back. It’s the first time anyone’s touched her in weeks with any kind of intent, and there’s that surge again, adrenaline but sharper, buzzing in her veins. She’s not sure what’s wrong with her. She’s not even drunk, for fuck’s sake.

“Let go of me, asshole!” He gives no indication that he heard her, and neither does anyone else—after all, she’d chosen the side door because there was never anyone in the alley, and the thumping drone of the bass pulsing through the walls drowns out almost everything else. She kicks him in the ribs. “I said put me down, you shrivel-dicked bastard!”

He winces a little at the kick this time—she’d worn her favorite steel-toed boots tonight, just in case—but doesn’t slow down. They turn the corner, and she watches the alley shrink, the streetlights overhead flickering, indifferent to whatever might be happening beneath them. She recognizes where he’s taking her, a dead end stacked with milk crates and old cardboard boxes and empty barrels; she’s robbed enough drunks there, she ought to know. Her heart’s beating so fast she thinks she might be sick and he can probably hear it, can probably smell the adrenaline and raw nerves and whatever else, but that’s never stopped her before and it’s sure as hell not going to stop her now. She makes to kick him again, but he grabs her thigh with his free hand, pinning her leg to his chest. She snarls, and his chuckle reverberates low in her belly and between her legs.

“By all means. This one enjoys a fight.”

His voice is low and raspy, his accent thick as an Elsweyr jungle; definitely not a Skyrim native. And yet there’s something about it that keeps nagging at her, an uneasy snag in some unconscious corner of her mind that she can’t shake. The hand curled around her thigh inches higher, fingers kneading at muscle, and then they stop and she’s pulled off his shoulder and shoved unceremoniously up against the chain link fence, hands pinned over her head. It rattles when she squirms. His fist is a vise around her wrists. She spits on his shoes, hoping they’re as expensive as they look.

“The higher-ups don’t like a lot of bloodshed on Guild property, you know. They won’t be happy about having to track you down.”

Truthfully, the thought of Karliah, or Mercer, facing down this giant of a Khajiit gives her chills. She’s not sure they can win. She’s not sure _she_ can win, and the thrill of relief that goes through her when he shakes his head is all too real, briefly-lived as it is.

“Bloodshed? No, no, _bishu dariit.”_ His free hand unzips her jacket, torturously slow, too-loud in the silence. She flinches on instinct as it slips inside, his palm sliding down her side and over the curve of her hip, then back up again, and his touch is so startingly warm it takes her a second to realize he’s looking for his wallet. His knuckles brush the underside of her breast through her t-shirt as he withdraws his hand from her jacket, having retrieved it from the hidden pocket sewn into the side. Her skin tingles in its wake. It’s not entirely unpleasant. He tucks the wallet calmly back into his own trousers, then lifts her chin with one blunt finger, forcing her to meet his gaze. “This one needs you alive and well.”

Her lip curls, wary. “For what?”

“To deliver a message.”

It’s now or never. “I’m not your errand girl,” Vex says, and swings her leg up as hard as she can, jamming her heel into the sensitive juncture between pelvis and thigh. He lets go of her with a pained snarl, doubling over on instinct. She bolts.

She’s always been fast, one of the best in the Guild, and the adrenaline pumping through her sends her flying down the alley, so quick and light she could swear her feet barely touch the ground. Heavy footsteps echo only seconds behind her, a low growl rending the air; something slams into her back with what feels like the force of a truck, and she hits the ground rolling, gasping for breath as every muscle in her body screams in protest. He’s on her before she can blink, blocking the instinctive punch she throws at his face, hand closing around her ankle. She wrenches it free, goes for her knife. He grabs her wrist instead, and she swings with her left this time, lands a satisfying blow to his chin. Her knuckles sting, even with the fur to cushion it. She gets in a few more jabs before he finally knocks her hand away and gets a good grip on her jacket, trying to haul her upright. He’s breathing harder now and so is she, blood pounding, teeth bared as she hooks both legs around his neck and _squeezes._ If she can cut off enough air to keep him on his knees, long enough to pull her knife, she can escape—even an enemy as big as he is needs to breathe—and even as she thinks these things, thighs gripping tighter and tighter still, he rises, yanking her up by her jacket so she’s practically folded in half. She yelps when her back hits the wall again, and then there’s absolute stillness, broken only by their panting and the muffled thump of music in the distance. His gaze never once moves from her face. Even when his head lowers, even when his muzzle presses into her groin and sends a jolt all the way up the back of her neck.

“Fuck off!” It comes out in a hiss as she makes to unhook her leg, trying to swing loose, but both hands clamp around her thighs, pinning her in place. Goosebumps ripple across her skin, and fuck, she shouldn’t be anywhere in the _neighborhood_ of turned on right now, but clearly she’d taken a wrong turn a few streets back. His lips peel back, and she catches a gleam of teeth, right before they sink into the crotch of her jeans and the sound of fabric ripping echoes through the alley. Her training keeps her from screaming, but only just, and it takes her a second to realize there’s no pain; he spits out a mouthful of denim and cotton, and an involuntary shudder rolls through her as brisk night air chills her exposed skin, laid bare before him. She’s wet. She doesn’t have time to think about why before a rough tongue buries itself in her cunt.

It's as fast as it is unexpected. He shoves her up against the siding, muzzle buried between her thighs, and she grabs at the back of his neck without thinking, burying her fingers in soft fur. His tongue is massive, the flat of it covering her in one broad stroke before lapping at her clit, wrenching a gasp from her throat. She can’t remember the last time anyone’s given her decent head. The fact that it’s a stranger should probably bother her more than it does, but it’s hard to think with blunt fingers digging into her thighs and an extremely agile tongue teasing the only exposed part of her body. Her clit throbs at the thought, and she squeaks when the blunt ridge of his teeth press against it, his tongue working lower, until—

“Oh, fuck,” she groans, and her head thumps against the wall as it slips inside her. She can feel his throat rumble—laughter or something else, she doesn’t know, doesn’t care. All she knows is that she both wants him to stop and will kill him if he does. His tongue feels like it’s _everywhere,_ against her and inside her, the friction lighting up her skin just this side of too much, and it’s all she can do to hold on. He tongue-fucks her slow, lazy, lapping at her entrance until she’s squirming before sliding back inside, and she can hear herself breathing too-loud in the silence, high-pitched and ragged like she’s running for her life. The next drag of his tongue across her clit makes her tense; her hips twitch, but he’s got her pinned too well for her to move. He does it again before she has time to be infuriated, and her breath catches, throat tight. This isn’t how her night was supposed to go, and she’s never been this close to coming so fast—what that says about her, she doesn’t want to know. She doesn’t want to think about it. She screws her eyes shut and digs her fingers into his fur, clinging tight. The rhythm shifts, speeds up, the soft edge of his tongue fluttering against her. Hitting just the right spot to make her chew her lower lip, trying to hold back the sounds that bubble up, until she comes and they spill over anyway, moans echoing through the alleyway. He doesn’t stop. It’s excruciatingly good. Another rumble rolls through her, makes her shudder as he finally pulls away, leaving her to pant and stare up at the starless sky.

He doesn’t say anything after—small mercies—but her relief is short-lived. He cradles her almost tenderly as he unhooks her legs from his shoulders, one hand supporting her back, and then she’s flipped unceremoniously onto her front and shoved over a barrel, belly-down. One finger hooks in the ripped crotch of her jeans, tearing them further, and the metallic sound of a belt unbuckling chimes behind her. Her feet don’t even reach the ground, but she braces her palms against the barrel, trying to get leverage to lift herself up; a huge palm pins her shoulder blades, flattens her again. Something blunt presses against her, hot and slick, and she knows she’s still sensitive but he has no right, really, making her feel like this. She twists as best she can to glare over her shoulder, bares her teeth in a vicious grin.

“Go on, then. Stick your sad little pencil dick in and get it over with, I have places to be.”

She can barely see him from this angle, but she sees enough to catch the way his smile widens, eyes glittering.

“As you wish,” he says, and her answering yelp is swallowed by the roar of a nearby motorcycle taking off.

Vex has heard whispers of how Khajiit pricks vary from their human counterparts, but she’d always dismissed them—neither of the Guild’s more prominent Khajiit members are secretive about their various entanglements, and she’s fielded enough rumors over the years to know that anyone talking about barbs was speaking from a place of fantasy over fact. The idea that this wasn’t the case for every furstock had only crossed her mind the second after the words left her lips, and as she clings to the barrel, she’s forced to admit that she may have miscalculated. They aren’t sharp, thank whichever god might be listening, but they’re definitely _present,_ and every time she clenches around the intrusion, it sends lightning up her spine, legs dangling uselessly. She likes big dick, has jokingly called herself a size queen a time or two to make Delvin squirm, but this is—

“Big enough for you?” His free hand cups her ass, kneading one cheek as he works her open. The contrast is disorienting: the soft brush of his fur against her bare skin and the huge, insistent press of him filling her. She moans a little without meaning to and immediately hates herself for it. His fingers slide lower, tracing the lips of her cunt before stroking her clit. She clenches again, involuntarily, and he makes a pleased sound, squeezing her hip. “This one would hate to disappoint.”

 _Shut up,_ she wants to say, _shut up,_ but her lips and tongue aren’t working right, the words all tangled up with ugly, animal noises as he grinds against her. So she kicks him in the thigh instead, and he retaliates by driving into her hard enough to knock the breath out of her. It hurts, the same way her muscles hurt after a long workout session, and she’s going to be sore come morning, but in that moment she doesn’t really care. It’s been a long time since she was presented any real challenge—might as well take advantage of it. She can always stab him later. So she hangs onto the barrel, feet scrabbling for purchase against the side, and angles her hips as best she can to meet each thrust, clenching her teeth so hard her jaw twinges. The slick, wet sound of their flesh joining is obscene in the silence, louder than the blows and hissed insults of their earlier fight. She doesn’t want to think about why that only makes her wetter, or why the prickle of her claws against her sides sends sparks flickering through her, why the nubby little barbs on his cock help more than they hurt. Why his rough breathing and the growl that reverberates through him whenever she angles her hips just right makes her throb, skin so hot she feels like she’s about to melt underneath him into nothing but vapor and steam.

“Hurry it up already,” she grunts, words stuttered in time with his thrusts, and she’s not sure what she expects, or why she keeps testing her luck when she’s already gambled and lost, but it’s not the crawl of hot breath up her neck as he bends over her, tongue dragging across the sensitive skin. She swallows hard, wincing as he nips at her. He soothes it with another lick, keeping her hips pinned flush against him.

“No,” he murmurs, and she feels him smile.

She loses track of time after that, how long he takes her. He’s thorough and exacting in his slowness, more punishing than any quick, brutal fuck ever could have been. Works her over until she’s hoarse, lips sore and bitten from holding back, cunt stretched and aching, dripping all down her thighs. Her jeans are ruined beyond repair. Every roll of his hips fans the embers low in her belly, and she can feel it building at the base of her spine and between her legs, her second orgasm of the night; it’s almost too much, but she screws her eyes shut and rocks back against him, chasing it all the same. She’s still chasing when his breathing picks up, the hand on her thigh tightening, and a startled moan slips free when his hips snap against her. He growls something in Ta’agra she doesn’t understand, digging his fingers into her ass, and she gasps as he pulses hot and hard inside her. And then she gasps again, sharper this time, because he’s somehow, impossibly, _growing;_ it’s the sensation of something stiffening inside her, where she’s already sensitive and full, and when she tries to move, she finds that she can’t. Only the hands on her back and thigh keep her from trying to squirm away in a panic, and her voice shakes when she glares back at him, reedy on the night air.

“What the fuck did you do to me?!”

“Simply a function of mating,” he says, sounding almost amused as he kneads her thigh with his palm. “No need to worry, _ahziss vari sifa._ They will go down soon enough.”

“Don’t call me shit like that,” she snaps, trying to pull her leg away. “I’m not your pet.”

He chuckles, and his wet fingers move between her legs to circle her clit, slow and firm. “No, not a pet. An opportunity.” She’s swollen beneath the pads of his fingers, drenched, her breath shaking as each stroke sends another ripple of pleasure through her. “Be grateful this one sees you as such, instead of a liability.”

She’d been close before he finished, and it doesn’t take long; it builds fast beneath the even, relentless movement of his hand and spreads through her, wildfire all down her spine to the tips of her toes. She comes with a choked-off cry and he keeps going, pushing her through it, rubbing and stroking until her legs tremble and her eyes roll back in her head, feet flailing uselessly. Nothing left to do but ride it out. He finally relents, leaving her draped over the barrel, boneless and panting. Her head buzzes. At the corner, a streetlight flickers. She breathes in deep and grits her teeth as his cock slides free, leaving her briefly clenching around nothing. The hand between her shoulder blades doesn’t move. Warm breath washes over her cheek as the enormous head bends to her ear.

“This one’s son works for your guild. His name is Dharmash.”

Vex stares at the streetlight out of the corner of her eye, thoughts gone static. They hum when it flickers.

“Tell him that Omurabi-ra comes to collect his due, and it is time for him to make his choice. If he waits too long, it will be made for him.” Nothing in his voice has changed, inflection mild, but the shiver that rips through Vex has nothing to do with the breeze. “He has a week to make contact through the usual channels. Encourage him to do so, _bishu dariit._ Otherwise this one will have to come looking.”

The hand leaves her back. How long she lies there, she doesn’t know, but when she dares to raise her head again, she’s alone in the alleyway, the night breeze growing colder by the second. He hadn’t made a sound.

It takes her some careful maneuvering, but she finally climbs off the barrel with minimal discomfort and staggers over to lean against the wall, hidden in the shadows cast by the overhang. Her hands are still shaking when she pulls out her phone, and she takes a deep breath before hitting the first button on her speed dial, trying to pull her thoughts together.

“Karliah? It’s Vex. Call me back. We have a situation.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you hang out in a fandom long enough, you end up with headcanons about dicks - in this particular case, that certain furstocks have soft-ish barbs that stiffen and "lock" into place, functioning similarly to knotting (hence the tag). Yes, Bethesda, I am available for consultation on TESVI.


End file.
